Happiness and Compulsive Liars
by justaluckybug
Summary: He didn’t use my name much, so when he said it, in that low, rumbling voice of his, it gave me goose bumps and usually makes me want to kiss him . Not tonight, tonight it just reminded me of all the things I was loosing." AU My take on teenage BMWW


_**Happiness and Compulsive Liars**_

I'm not going to call him.

I'm not.

And it doesn't matter that I haven't heard from him in three days and it doesn't matter that he hasn't been to school. I'm sure he's just moping away in that Goddamn mansion of his. He can rot in there, for all I care.

Except that I do. Care, I mean.

Don't ask me why, because your guess is as good as mine. All I know is that the last time we talked it ended in me **not** crying and him doing that thing where he pretends I mean nothing to him. And I can't help thinking he's lying in some ditch somewhere and the last thing I ever said to him was that nobody loves him and nobody ever could.

And that's just a lie.

Because I do. Love him. That's how this whole thing started.

See, everybody knows who he is. He's a legend around here. But he was gone for a long time. And then about eight months ago he came back just as suddenly as he'd left.

The first thing I ever said to him was that he was a jerk. Which he is, so I'm not going to apologize for that.

But then one day we were in Geometry II. And I always thought that he must have paid to get into the highest math class because he was a complete idiot. He got C's and D's on all his tests and every question the teacher asked he got wrong.

But then one day I was sitting next to him (I was late because of a really long story about some crazy cabbage guy and a really mad old lady, but the point is that it was the only seat left and if I hadn't sat there I probably would have never fallen in love with that arrogant jerk) and I noticed that he was doodling in his notebook instead of taking notes. I was about to scoff and turn away but then I saw that they weren't doodles at all. And all that stuff in his notebook that looked like complete nonsense was really advanced calculus. And just then the teacher asked him a question, and without even looking up he answered,

"Fourteen."

The real answer was sixteen, but by that point I was already convinced that he knew that. I was also convinced that the whole stupid, arrogant, rich, snobbish playboy thing was just an act. And I was convinced that I could call him out on it. All I had to do was wait for him to do something nice and sweet and non-stupid-arrogant-rich-snobbish-playboy. Yeah well, needless to say, that wasn't as easy as it sounded.

Because if there's anything that he's actually good at, it's making people believe that he's not good at anything. Except being rich, but I don't think that counts as a talent.

Anyway, I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

For months. Constantly watching him, looking for something, anything to prove that I was not just a paranoid (hopeful) stocker girl.

So in the end, I did what I always do.

I got angry and yelled at him.

Class had just ended and he was taking an extremely long time to pack up which just made me more annoyed. So I waited (again) outside. And as soon as he walked out I grabbed his arm and dragged him into the nearest bathroom. Luckily it was empty (but I'm fairly certain it was a guys bathroom on account of the fact it smelled like the dumpster behind Hamburger Heaven).

He said something revolting like:

"Hey if you wanted to do it you could have just asked" or something along those lines.

Anyway, I hit him.

Then I launched into a ten-minute long ramble about all my suspicions about him being a secret genius and my recent (startling) stocker habits. And by the time I was finished, I was out of breath and panting and waiting for him to sound shocked or creeped out or something. But he just stood there and stared. Which just made me even more furious then I already was. And I was just about to hit him again when he said,

"You're kind of beautiful when you're angry."

And that was it. That was all I needed to know that I wasn't crazy, or at least not completely. It meant I was right about him all along.

If he had said 'hot' or 'sexy' or even 'cute', I would have just punched him and left and never think twice about him ever again. But he didn't, he called me beautiful and no arrogant jerk calls a girl beautiful, or at least calls a girl beautiful and means it.

And he did mean it. I know that for a fact. Because when he said it he was looking me right in the eye and he was smiling a quiet, little smile and it was the most genuine thing I'd ever seen. And no matter how good an actor you are, you can't fake something as real as that smile.

After that, we just sort of… I don't know, 'fell' into this really weird friend-but-more-than-friend thing and it'd been that way for months. It was fun and relaxing and I screwed it all up. I just couldn't leave well enough alone.

It was my fault.

I wasn't happy with the way things were. I wanted more than little glances, stolen kisses, and the not so subtle brushes of our hands when we walked down the street. I wanted arms around the shoulders and handholding and gift giving and titles and all that shit that ruins everything. And I know that if I hadn't said anything then I would have constantly wondered what could have been, but something is better than nothing, and I want the something we had back because this nothing is going to kill me.

It was three days ago. We were walking home from the movies. (It took me months of begging for him to even consider going to the movies. He kept saying he didn't like movie theaters and I made a joke about some childhood trauma always ruining all the fun; it was supposed to be funny but it wasn't. In the end, we ended going to one of those outdoor things that are supposed to make you feel like it's 1955. They had parked cars you could go sit in and a waitress in a poodle skirt served Pepsi in glass bottles. It was surprisingly fun.) s

We'd just seen some comically terrible thing about zombies and vampires and I'd pretended to be scared just so he would put his arm around me and I could bury my head in his chest.

We were walking home and it was cold. He gave me his jacket, the brown leather one that I'd always thought he looked really, really good in. It smelt like him, expensive cologne and Ax and something that's just too him to describe.

We were laughing and trying not to step on the cracks on a sidewalk full of them and I had been thinking that I'd never been so happy before. That's when I realized that **he** made me happier then I'd ever been before and I wanted him to know. I wanted the world to know.

And I should have known better.

I remember exactly what I said, too.

"Do I make you happy, Bruce?"

And he said something intelligent like:

"Huh?"

Because he hadn't really been expecting the talking. It wasn't something we did often. I think that's why he let me hang around him; we would spend hours together and not say a word and I think he liked the quiet for once. Quiet was sort of a rare thing to come by in Gotham.

So I repeated the question. And I should have seen it coming right then, when he answered my question with another question. That's always a bad sign.

"Why would you ask that?"

And I remember that really well too, because I had been trying to walk on the little fence that people put around those sad, little, city trees and his reply had made me stumble. He caught me with his cat-like reflexes but when I looked at him he was all serious and it scared me. I should have smelt the doom in the air.

I laughed, a little nervous noise two octaves too high.

"Because," I tried to explain, "you make **me** happy. Really, really happy." And I stopped then to read his expression but there wasn't an expression to read, so I continued a little less sure of myself than before.

"I just wanted to know if I made you as happy as you make me." It was naïve of me, to wish like that. Everyone knows wishing only wounds the heart.

It was quiet for a long time. And not our usual quiet either, it was dark and heavy and made me think of an execution. It was just something in the air. Really, I should have known.

Finally he said,

"It takes a lot to make me happy these days."

And I'm sure he didn't mean it the way it came out. I'm sure he didn't mean to make it sound like an insult. But it did. Because he was spending 'these days' with me and apparently I **didn't** make him as happy as made me.

So I did what I always do.

"Well, I'm sorry," I said and I don't think I could have been even more sarcastic if I tried. "I guess I just thought we were having fun but if you don't agree then maybe we shouldn't hang out anymore." I was going to say 'maybe we shouldn't be friends anymore' but I didn't, because we were less than that and more than that and I guess that's what makes it so sad. We lost something we never really had a name for.

I was about to storm off in a fit of fury but he gabbed my arm. I turned and expected him to say something but all he did was stare at me. And I flashed back to Geometry and urinals and I knew then, that it was going to be the end. I saw it coming but it was already too late.

I waited.

(And it seems now that waiting is all I ever do.)

But he stayed silent.

I tried to pull away but he's stronger than I am (something I've always been reluctant to admit).

"What is it, Bruce?" I asked, exasperated with the whole thing. I hadn't meant it to be such a deep question. It's funny how things never turn out like you meant them to.

He stayed silent.

"I get it, okay? I don't make you happy. I read into things that probably meant nothing at all. I'm just another sixteen-year-old girl who thought a guy liked her and was wrong. I'm sorry I'm such a cliché. Just let me go, okay? I'm embarrassed enough as it is."

He stayed silent a moment longer and I swear I almost broke his nose.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Oh," I said with a bittersweet laugh. "Oh, he didn't mean it like that. Do you hear that everybody, he didn't mean it like that!" I was shouting now and normally I'd care about waking the whole neighborhood, but it's funny how you don't think about these things when you're trying desperately to pick up the shattered pieces of your heart while still trying to make it out with whatever shred of dignity you have left.

"Diana."

And the way he said my name just egged me on even more. Because he didn't use my name much; he called me Shorty (because he's an inch taller than me), Giggles (because I've never failed to laugh at any of his lame jokes), and my personal favorite, Princess (because of that one time when he wanted to go for a walk and I wanted to stay in because it was too cold. "Don't worry Princess," he had said. "I'll keep you warm.").

He didn't use my name much, so when he said it, in that low, rumbling voice of his, it gave me goose bumps (and usually makes me want to kiss him). Not that night though, that night it just reminded me of all the things I was loosing.

"Diana, you're overreacting." Not the best thing to say, I'm not going to lie.

"No, Bruce, I'm not overreacting. It just seems like every time I show the least bit of emotion that I'm overreacting because I have feelings, Bruce. Unlike you. But I forgot, who needs feelings right? Because you're a rock, an island. And who am I to try and get close to an island."

"Why are you acting like this?" It wasn't a question of concern, it was a question of confusion and that didn't make it better, it made it worse.

"Because I love you, okay?" He looked like I just told him Alfred was on the roof and wouldn't come down. "I love you because I **thought **you were sweet and good and wonderful and everything I've ever wanted and that you just pretend like you're an insensitive asshole. But it turns out you really are an insensitive asshole and that you just pretend like you're sweet. Just like how you pretended to actually like me."

"I….I…." I can honestly say it was the first time I'd ever heard him stutter before.

"I can't love you." And there it was, the only thing I'd never wanted to hear him say. You got to love how cruel the universe can be.

And then he just walked away.

"Yeah, that's right, just go!" I yelled after him, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice. "Just know that no one will ever love you if you don't let them. Which you won't because you're so Goddamn stubborn. Hope you like being alone, Bruce, because that's how you're going to spend the rest of your life. Alone!" By this time I was sobbing and screaming incoherent things. I didn't get home until after two in the morning and I didn't go to school the next day. It wasn't till Wednesday that I found out Bruce didn't either. And he also didn't show on Thursday.

So now it's Friday afternoon and I'm sitting in our spot by the park feeling sorry for myself and checking my phone every three seconds. Maybe if I stare at it long enough it'll ring, that or magically turn into a genie that can grant wishes and turn back time. Either one of those options sounds pretty good.

And it's taking all of my willpower not to hit speed dial 1 and call him. The fact that he's speed dial 1 makes me realize that I don't have any other friends besides him and Monday's going suck more than it usually does.

I'm not going to call him.

I'm not.

And before I can stop it my thumb hits the one. (Sometimes my phalanges just disobey me like that, what can you do?)

It's ringing.

Dammit.

Please don't pick up, please don't pick up.

"_Hi, this is Bruce. Leave a message and I might get back to you. Then again I might not, so do whatever the hell you want."_

Before I thought that voicemail was kind of endearing. Now I just think it's there to mock me. 

"Umm…hi" (way to be smooth, Diana) "It's me." And then because I thought that maybe because we hadn't talked in three days he wouldn't remember my voice, I said,

"It's Diana, I mean."

"Look I just want you to know I feel like a complete idiot calling you first because you're a jackass and I shouldn't have to cave. But nobody's heard from you in days and I just want to make sure you're still breathing, so if you could just do something. You don't even have to talk to me. Just text me a word, a letter, whatever you want, just so I know."

"So…" I was going to say goodbye. But my brain's screaming 'Hang up before you humiliate yourself anymore" and my heart's screaming "I don't want to be alone".

"So…umm…I don't think you meant it when you said you couldn't love me. Maybe you don't want to and that's okay, but I hate liars and it's not that you're incapable of love, or any emotion for that matter, it's just that you're scared you're going to get hurt. It's not that you can't love me, it's that you won't love me. I just want that to be clear."

"Also, I think you should know that you're a really good kisser" (wow, did I say that?) "And maybe if I kissed the way you do you'd feel it too, that spark. 'Cause there is a spark. That much I know. And…. And…"

And I'd pretty sure I would've kept rambling on about everything until his machine cut me off but he's standing right in front of me and I feel like crying. I'm not going to, obviously, but I feel like it.

He's standing there looking at me and his eyes are so pretty. Why hadn't I noticed how beautiful his eyes are before?

"I'm sorry," he says, like that means anything anymore.

"You hate liars, right?" he says, holding up his phone. I think I'm going to puke. "Well that's me, Princess. I'm a cold-hearted, compulsive liar. Because I want to love you. So badly. And you're so right. You're always right and maybe if I'd have realized that before we could have avoided this whole thing. But I can love you and I want to love you, but the last time I loved something it was taken away from me. And I don't think I can handle that again."

I didn't say anything because, honestly, what do you say to that. Nothing. There is nothing you can say to that. So I didn't.

I walked up to him and he was still talking. I put my finger to his lips and said,

"Shut up for a second, okay?"

And then I kissed him. That kiss, God, it was summer nights in the 1950's and leather jackets and expensive cologne and laughter and young love and soul mates and everything it was supposed to be.

I don't think we'll be saying anything for a while. But that's okay.

We never did talk much, anyway.

---

**So yeah, there it is. I like to put the intros at the end because I know I never read anything the author puts until I've decided the story's worth it (sorry :P) but if you made it to the end hopefully you liked it. Sort of my first try at humorous stuff so maybe review and tell me if it was any good or if I should just stick to the melodramatic teen angst stuff. Fun. No but seriously. I hope it was okay. And I snuck like four song references in there for you guys because I love 'Where's Waldo' and this is basically the same thing. If you find them I'll give you a cookie. Yeah, a chocolate chip cookie…or maybe just the cookie dough…mmm…So yeah review please. Okay I'm just going to shut up now. Yeah, good idea. **

**Oh yeah, this whole idea came from the song "Sorry" by Maria Mena, check it out, it's a great song okay. Love you guys, **

**--Sammy--**


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